When I Was A Boy
by Brighid45
Summary: 'When did you know you were a musician' House remembers how music entered his life. A one-shot set in the Discipline 'verse, just a moment in time.


"When did you know you were a musician?"

The apartment is full of golden light and shadows, the evening far advanced. Greg's settled on the couch with his woman, beer in one hand, her left breast cupped in the other. Toussaint McCall's 'Nothing Takes the Place of You' plays on the turntable. Outside a storm blows and blusters, full of wind and icy rain, but he and she are warmed by a good fire and each other's closeness. He considers the question as he sips his lager.

"I was three." He shifts a bit to stretch out his leg, glad the meds and his new TENS unit have dulled the sharp edge of pain into something he can bear. "Both my mother and her mother played piano. There was no way to escape without them trying to teach me."

Gardner eases in closer and rests her head against his shoulder. She chuckles, a soft sound. "Somehow I get the feeling you didn't fight them."

He doesn't answer her; eidetic memory, a dubious gift at best and more often downright curse, has broken open the locked closet of stored knowledge. He has no choice but to survey the contents of this particular shelf.

 _(Mommy glanced at Greg, her hands poised over the piano keys. He watched, eager to get permission to come to her. She gave Daddy a quick look. Daddy lowered his brows and took a big drink of his beer. After a moment he nodded once and continued to eat his supper. Greg knew that meant he didn't approve, but would give in this time. There would be a price to pay later, but that was later, not now._

" _Come on over." Mommy moved aside a bit and patted the open space. Greg abandoned his book, clambered off his chair, and almost tripped in his hurry to climb up on the bench. He didn't take the seat she offered however, but pushed his way into her lap and sat straight as he mimicked her posture._

" _Play!"_

" _Please," Mommy said. Greg put his hands over hers and shoved them down on the keys, impatient for her to begin. She chuckled. "Yes, all right." She began to play once more, as she looked at the paper with the strange marks that sat on the rack. After a few moments Greg tried to move her hands aside._

" _I get to play now."_

" _Greg, you can't. Your hands aren't big enough yet. Here." She lifted her fingers and took his right hand, placed his thumb on one of the long white keys. "This is middle C. Push down hard . . . that's it."_

 _The note was tentative, weak. Daddy shook his head and shoveled in a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Greg tried again. The second attempt was a brief thump of sound, but it filled the room. Mommy nodded, and it was clear she was pleased with his effort. "That's it, good. Find middle C again."_

 _Greg pushed the key and looked at the others as they lay in silence around his hand. Soon he would play all of them the way his mother did; he would get her to show him. A sort of tremulous happiness filled him at the idea. He'd make music the way Mommy did . . . only more. And better. And all the time, if Daddy would let him._

" _I don't want him banging on things." Daddy put down his fork. "Get him lessons so he does it right." He finished his beer. "He'll be better than you in a couple of years."_

 _Mommy didn't answer him. She brought Greg a little closer. He squirmed free of her grasp, eager to play again. She sighed. "Find middle C again, sweetheart . . . that's it.")_

 _("Make sure you get some sleep, dear. You've got a big day at school tomorrow. Good night, sleep tight."_

 _Greg waited until his mother closed his bedroom door, and silence had fallen for some time. When he was sure the coast was clear, he eased back the sheet and reached under the bed, felt for the little transistor radio he had stashed on the inside of the bottom rail. He lifted it with care and pulled the covers over his head, found the power switch and cranked the volume down, in a panic that it was too loud and he'd be busted again. Last time Dad had caught him he'd taken the radio for a month, accompanied by an endless rant on the evils of negro music and how he'd never allow that trash to be played in his household. Mom had interceded to get the radio back, with a stern warning about how he wasn't allowed to listen to it without permission ever again, or it would be taken away for good. Therefore, a little extra caution on his part made sure he wouldn't have to repeat that miserable experience for a while at least._

 _Greg turned the tuning dial with care, past ball games, news and endless commercials, until he found the music. In the stifling dark he listened through the crackle and static, and closed his eyes on a grin as a familiar voice came through._

" _Lay your hands on the radio and squeeze my knobs, 'cause the Wolfman's here, we ain't foolin', we gonna sock it to ya!"_

 _He drifted off into the darkness as he played air piano on his pillow, and the sound of freedom filled him up.)_

 _("Come on. It's just for a couple of hours a week. Sir."_

 _John didn't look up from his paperwork. "More like it's just an excuse to hang out with a bunch of deadbeats and drink someone's liquor cabinet dry."_

" _We got permission to rehearse in the music room at school. The band director, Stevens-he said he'd help us. You can call him, he said it was okay."_

" _That loser wouldn't recognize a decent musician if he tripped over one. If he thinks he can help you and your idiot buddies, that just proves my point." John set down his pen and picked up another set of papers. "The answer is no. Don't ask again."_

 _Greg knew better than to push. He still had sore places from his last session with the belt. In silence he closed the office door and left the house before he got into more trouble. Under other circumstances he wouldn't care if John came after him for mouthing off, but he didn't want to jeopardize his freedom, not now. He'd done what Mom had asked and gone through official channels, for all the good it accomplished; a fucking waste of time, as usual. He'd just have to find another way, and that meant he had to be able to go places. If he was grounded for being a smartass, he'd never accomplish his goal._

 _Anyway, he'd talk to the guys, figure something out. They'd make a time and a place to practice, they were good, better than good, and no one was going to take away his chance to be in a band. His first band, the start of all the others to come . . .)_

 _("The owner stiffed us on the gate." Justin dumped his guitar in its case, slapped the lid shut and flipped the catches. "Asshole."_

" _He said it was to cover the beer tab." Crandall tossed his sticks, caught them and did a quick roll in the tabletop._

" _Two watered-down beers apiece cost twenty bucks." Justin shook his head and picked up the case. "Total ripoff."_

" _So what! Did you hear that crowd?" Greg zipped shut the cover on his keyboard. "They loved us!"_

" _Yeah, we're the new Stones. Too bad we don't make their money for a gig." Crandall shrugged into his coat. "Let's blow this pop stand and grab a couple ounces from that guy at the back door before we go to my place, he says it's primo stuff. I got papers yesterday and my girl's bringing home leftover pizza from work later."_

 _Greg pulled the case strap over his shoulder. "Primo my ass, his shit's always full of stems and seeds. We're gonna need beer."_

" _Then you're buying." Justin grinned at Greg and ducked the half-hearted swing. "Come on, let's get the fuck outta here before we lose the other half of that forty bucks.")_

 _("We do NOT have room for a grand piano." Stacy folded her arms and gave Greg a look—the one he knew meant she was all business. "Where on earth would we put it?"_

" _Living room." He did his best to sound casual. "Plenty of space there."_

 _Stacy studied him. "You already bought it." Her soft mouth was a straight line now. "And you didn't ask."_

" _Becauuuuse . . . I knew you'd object for no good reason." He came closer. "You said the same thing the first time we had sex."_

" _What, that there was space for you in the living room?"_

 _Greg gave her his best innocent look. "That it would never fit."_

 _She rolled her eyes as she fought a laugh. "I don't appreciate your making decisions without me, Greg."_

" _I need this." He was surprised to hear the words in his head come out of his mouth. "It's a baby grand, Stacy. You won't even notice it's there."_

 _A brief silence fell. Then she tilted her head, and he caught his breath at the way her features softened. "Small enough to fit, huh?"_

" _Bite your tongue." And he came over to do just that—but gently.)_

 _(He stared at the piano. It sat ready for him, silent, a little dusty. He'd been away for a while, after all. And now that Stacy was gone—He yanked his mind clear of the keen, stark edge of his new reality. He didn't need to keep things spotless. What difference did it make? No one would see it but him. He couldn't be on his feet that much anyway, even if he wanted to houseclean._

 _He turned his gaze to the bench. It looked bare, hard. After a few moments he limped to it, and started to sit. His leg screamed at him and he dropped the rest of the way on a gasp, to land with a graceless thump. The edge of the seat cut into his thigh. He shifted around as he tried to find a comfortable position. The cane got in his way. With an impatient gesture he propped it against the bass end of the keyboard, and turned to face the instrument. He waited for the music to come, but only pain filled his head. The endless white noise of it scratched at him until he brought his hands down on the keys. Discordant notes filled the room. The cane toppled to the floor. "_ _Shit!_ _" He wanted to grab it and smash everything around him until the entire place was in ruins, the way he was—the way he always would be, for the rest of his life. He bowed his head, defeated by the terror that welled up within._

" _I can't do this. Can't . . . can't live like this." The words sounded ugly and ridiculous spoken out loud. He pushed up, grimaced at the intense stab of agony the action caused. Maybe another couple of Vicodin and a shot of bourbon to chase them . . . If he brought the bottles with him, he wouldn't have to move again for a while. Yeah, he could do that at least. Later on, when the rest of the world was awake, he'd order another bench, one with a cushioned seat. )_

 _(The piano was ready. Greg moved the seat in place, eased onto it. He could hear Gardener in the kitchen as she puttered around with plates and silverware to serve the takeout dinner they'd brought with them to the cottage after their shopping expedition. She had played once in his hearing some time ago, a Chopin waltz; while she didn't have her father's immense talent, she was still a gifted musician on her own terms. He found the right keys, and began the piece. The pensive quality of the melodic line drew him in until there was only the music, and the feel of the keys under his fingers, cool and smooth._

 _When it ended, he looked up. Gardener stood in the doorway. Her eyes glittered with tears. One spilled down her cheek. She came forward to stand next to him; she took his hand, raised it to brush a kiss over his knuckles. He felt her tremble and knew a moment of bewildered astonishment that he had brought this emotion out of her for the music, and for him too.)_

The memories fade, and he returns to reality—the woman next to him, and good music on the record player. "Never had a chance." He brings her a little closer. "You too, I'd bet."

"I loved it from the first note." She gives a soft sigh. "It hasn't been easy, living with its presence in my life. But it's always been worthwhile, after everything's said and done."

He considers her words as he breathes in the scent of her, familiar and still exciting. "Yeah," he says after a comfortable silence. "From the first note."

' _When I Was A Boy,' Jeff Lynne/ELO_

' _Nothing Takes the Place of You,' Toussaint McCall_

' _Waltz in B minor, opus 69, no. 2,' Frederik Chopin_


End file.
